


The Touch of Her

by RedCharcoal



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 01:05:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCharcoal/pseuds/RedCharcoal
Summary: Kara and Cat have an attraction that can never happen. There's an awareness there, a tingling, a longing, but they can't go there. Which makes it supremely awkward that there's a conference in Fiji coming up. One suite. Two appreciative women who can look but absolutely can't touch.





	1. Eyes, Mouth, Skin

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something I wrote off the top of my head while on holidays. It's not beta read; just a one draft thing. Trying to kickstart author me.

She’s a wily one, that Kara Danvers. She thinks I don’t know what lies beneath those prim glasses, those eyes – wide and bright – that smile, so young, so charming. She thinks I can’t see the way her breath catches, or all the times her eyes seek out my lips, before darting somewhere, anywhere else.

She thinks I can’t see? Oh, I can see.

But we can’t do that.

She knows we can’t. And yet she persists.

This flirting game, this guileless appreciation of me is to be expected, I suppose. I am the queen of all media. That comes with a certain powerful attraction for others in my orbit. I can’t help that.

But I don’t give her anything back. I can’t afford to. Not in my position. Not with her age. Her sex. Her assistant status.

No, no.

_We can’t._

* * *

 

She’s a frustrating human, Cat Grant. Sometimes she watches me, really closely, and gives a half smile, like she knows all my secrets. How can she? Or _can_ she? I hope not.

Alex says I’m like an open book and it’s a miracle my super secret has stayed buried under my “safe, sweet-sixteen” office outfits as long as it has.

She says stuff like that. A lot.

I never had a sister before. I am guessing it’s normal to be teased about one’s total cluelessness about things. But for a long time, I admit, it hurt. I’m only clueless because this isn’t home. This isn’t native to me. And she isn’t helping reminding me I’m so useless at everything that comes natural to her.

Like love. I don’t have a clue how to deal with this. I'm sure that's what this is. It swells in my heart, all strange and burning. It’s a compulsion, like when I can’t stop eating to refuel after a night of fighting.

I consume food with a ferocity and passion, like I can’t get enough. And I look at Cat Grant and I swear it’s the same. It’s hunger. It feels insatiable. I can’t get enough. All I see when I look at her is the word MORE. I want… no, need… more.

If it's not love, I don't know what can come close to explaining this cacophony of emotions. I'm so hyper aware of her.

She touched me today. On the sleeve, to get my attention. Her fingers drifted down my forearm to the back of my hand. They stayed there for 1.4 seconds. I counted, because time works like that for me. I can perceive things and do things so much faster than humans. So I spent an eternity in that 1.4 seconds, experiencing it like it was an hour.

After she was done, after my pores stopped singing a hallelujah choir, and my breath returned to me, and my heart jumped to manic thudding, I wondered how I’d ever cope if she touched more than my hand.

How would I cope if she touched a shoulder? A cheek. A knee... A breast.

I swallow, barely able to pursue that thought. I see it dart away like a tumbleweed down a deserted street. But I look at it, excitement rising.

A nipple.

How would I cope if she placed her mouth on my bare, naked, goosepimpling skin, and looked at me with desire. With eyes that searched my soul? How would I feel if she devoured all of me? Every part of me. The parts of me I have never shared with anyone. The places I touch only when alone, longing for it to be her hand. Her lips.

Her.

I tremble at just the thought.

But it is just a thought. It's silly. Because we can’t.

No. It’s impossible. She’d never allow it.

Obviously.

* * *

 

I touched Kara Danvers today. I didn’t even notice at first that I had. Just the merest accidental touch to call her attention to some paperwork. I would have thought nothing more of it but her reaction was far more than such an incidental brushing of fingertips deserved.

Her pupils dilated. Wide and dark. Her breath hitched. Her eyes searched my face as a blush spidered its way up that soft delicate neck.

Does she know what those ingénue blushes do to me?

Does she?

Sometimes I think she must, given how often she inflicts them on my unsuspecting being.

Of late, I have been debating whether to bring Kara with me to the conference in a week. Normally, as an assistant, it’s not even a question. Of course she should be there. To assist. In all the assisting ways she is so perfect at. Coffees on my desk before I even know I want them. Salad or burger? She knows my mood and acquires the appropriate lunch for me before the thought is half formed and curled onto my tongue.

She stays late on the nights I need her most; by unspoken agreement she just senses when I don’t want her to leave my side. She takes off when I’m in no mood to be flitted around and fussed over.

And by _takes off_ , I suspect many a night she does that literally. Does she really think I don’t know?

My normally faithful assistant was missing during a critical advertiser's meeting some months back. I had to ask that soulful-eyed, cardiganned friend of hers four times for her presence. When she finally deigned to appear, her hair reeked of smoke. There was ash smudged next to one ear.

When I returned to my office, snappish and out of sorts at being prioritized last by the person who is paid to always put me first, I glanced at the TV monitors. The Meat Factory district had been on fire. Supergirl to the rescue. She saved nine souls that hour.

And Kara Danvers smelled of fire.

The realization wasn’t as shocking as one might think. I’d always known deep down. It was probably convenient not to think too hard about it. To stop and wonder that they both share the same tiny scar above one eye. That they’re the same height, build, and have identical hair color. I mean, really, I’m not known for my denseness, but it should have occurred to me more forcefully than before this.

Once before I’d allowed myself to be convinced by a little ruse involving a Supergirl doppelganger. But somewhere, buried shallowly in my subconscious - which spends so, so long dwelling on both women - I’ve always known.

Which brings me back to my conference. Normally an assistant would attend. Kara is well aware of this. She keeps pointing out things on the itinerary, as though expecting me to bring up the fact I haven’t asked her to include herself on this trip.

How can I though? It’s in Fiji. Home of beaches and sarongs, drinks out of pineapples, and guests wearing very little in their downtime. And I can’t deny my assistant downtime. I’m not _that_ selfish. But how will it feel, watching her slink by in a bikini, feet crunching along white sand, doubtlessly waving some ridiculous multi-parasoled drink at me as she slaps a hand on her wide-brimmed hat?

Am I supposed to pretend that the sight of her, lean and honed, smooth and soft, all deliciously laid bare, won’t give me more doubts, more temptations than I’m fortified to repel?

It’s not fair on her though, not to let her go. I’m sure it will be fine. I can always hide in my room and let her go and be young.

It's settled then. I glance up to her desk.

"Keira?" I call. "Pack. I'll need you in Fiji."

I don't wait for a response. I don't look up to see the inevitable delight washing her face. The thought of the trip already fills me with dread. I'm a roiling cocktail of hiss, vinegar, and irritation. Perhaps I should warn her. Pack her sunscreen and armor.


	2. Her face, that lace

Miss Grant waits too long sometimes. It’s frustrating. If she’d asked weeks ago to let me book in for the Fiji conference, I could have sorted out my own room. Now they’re fully booked. I have to go to another resort or share the second bedroom within Miss Grant’s suite.

What a choice. I mean, it’s bad enough I can’t tear my eyes off her, now I'd be sharing the same space for a whole week? The other resort would be a better option, and thanks to a certain flying ability, I could be back each morning in no time.

The only problem with that is there’s no regular shuttle between the two closest resorts. They’re in the middle of nowhere. The hire cars are all booked out for the conference. So there’s no easy way for me to go to and fro without her knowing I’m doing the impossible. Or knowing _how_ I am.

I adjust my glasses with a frown. She might not even want me underfoot anyway. I should tell her, and she might say she doesn’t want me there. So that would solve the angst, I suppose.

I’m standing in front of her, watching that gold pen flick and slide across the page. She knows I’m there. She always does. It’s one of the games she plays. I’m not sure if the games are fun though. They’re like playing chicken with your hand in a tiger’s mouth. Exhilarating until it’s not.

I look at the mouth in question. Pink and plump. This is not helping.

“Yes Keira? All set?”

“Um, about that Miss Grant? They’re solidly booked up. I…there’s nowhere in your resort. I’d have to either book in a different one…”

“Unacceptable.” Her pen slaps down and she finally looks up. “What if I need you in the middle of the night to do some deal on the other side of the world? No. That’s not workable. I assume you have an option B?”

“Only…um…I stay in the guest room of your suite. B-but, I mean I know that’s an imposition so…” I fade out, fingers knotting and unknotting themselves.

Miss Grant glares at me. Glares, like I’ve swapped her sweetener with sugar or suggested we hire Lois Lane.

God. It’s worse than I thought.

“ _That_ is the only choice?”

I give her a helpless shrug. “I suppose I could just not go. I mean if the idea is that unpalatable.”

Miss Grant’s lips compress. “Also unacceptable. I trust you’ll keep your wall-trembling snores to a bare minimum.” She waves her hand. Flaps it in the void between us. “That’s all.”

* * *

 

I am sharing a suite with her. My assistant with the wide eyes and kissable lips. Oh, how the gods love to mock me. I can hear her now, through her open door, unpacking, and I’m driven by curiosity to wonder what she packed. Thongs or polka-dotted panties? What does she sleep in? Does she mumble in repose? Does one hand curl into a fist under chin? Or does she hug her pillow like a lover?

The thought of her with a lover brings me up short. I push it away, unwilling to endure the mental images that come with it. I’m not that strong.

I pluck my underthings from my suitcase and make my way to a chest of drawers.

“Miss Grant, when do you wan…”

I look up to find my assistant staring at my handful of white, lacy thongs. A bra hangs from my other hand. La Perla. My favourite. Her look brings out the mischief in me. I have half a mind to twirl one thong around a finger and ask her for a business update.

Before I can do anything, she’s already about-faced and returned to her room, mumbling an apology for interrupting.

It’s ludicrous, I muse, filing my undergarments in the drawer. The savior of the human race, the superhero whose image is affixed to posters, lunchboxes, and billboards worldwide, is a quivering mess over my lingerie. Who needs kryptonite when lace will do?

I remember I’m supposed to be distancing myself from this girl, annoyed at her being underfoot, unsettled by her proximity. But it’s just so hard. Those sweet doe eyes. My god.

I find myself leaning against the frame of her door, watching her unpack at a feverish place. Any faster and it would be super speed. “In a hurry to get to the beach?” I venture.

She freezes. Blushes. Again. The girl does a remarkable impression of a tomato. And drops her clothes back into her suitcase. Boy-cut panties. Well, well. Internal bet settled.

“I’m available for whatever you need,” she says, a little too husky to be a neutral offer.

I push the thoughts of my needs aside and regard her. “Where’s my itinerary.”

I know full well where it is, but I need an excuse to be in here, spying on her suitcase like a gauche teenager.

Truly, I need some discipline.

“It’s in your carry-on bag, Miss Grant. Front, right pocket. Where you put it this morning.”

There’s a hint of censure there, like the faintest suggestion she knows all too well the question was a ruse. I’m not impressed by it. It’s familiar. And familiar is dangerous. I straighten and my eye falls to a pretty sundress in the bag. It’s so _her_ , isn’t it? Bright and sunny? I stare at it and wonder not for the first time how she can inhabit that persona, Sunny Danvers, and also be the other _her_.

This young woman maims and kills and incarcerates vicious aliens in her spare time.

This same young woman is looking at my lips right now, as though wondering how they taste. She has on a T-shirt, white and tight, and suddenly I can see two hardening knots under the cotton. I smirk and glance at the bamboo ceiling fan circling in lazy _whompfs_. “I had no idea it was that cold.”

She glances down at herself and her blush turns so crimson I almost feel bad.

I pivot to go. “We leave in half an hour. Get changed. Chop chop.”

“Yes, Miss Grant.” It’s barely a whisper.

Now I do feel bad. She’s a good person. I’m not. Further reason I should steer well clear of her and those longing, bright eyes.

* * *

 

I am dying. Probably. Miss Grant knows I’m a mess around her, clearly. She even pointed out my … obvious interest.

This is a disaster. It’s humiliating. I’d love to fly home and have hard-core ice cream therapy for a day until I forget about what just happened.

Why did she do that? Call attention to it?

She had no reason to even be in here. We both know exactly where her itinerary is.

She’s maddening. But then that’s Cat Grant. I’m not sure I’ll survive this week. What on earth possessed me to even want to come?

_Don’t answer that, heart. I’m tired of you voting twice._

I shake out my favorite summer dress. It's light, buttery yellow, and sort of happy. I wonder before I can stop myself whether she'll like it.


	3. The Charms of Others

She’s wearing the sundress. Of course she is. She couldn’t wear some completely bland ensemble involving sensible gray pants and a formless matching jacket? Something that would make her blend effortlessly into a convention room wall? Would that be too much to ask?

No, I get Sunny Danvers, in a positively delightful yellow dress which shows off her tan legs and a smooth expanse of toned arms. She’s so blinding, so wholesome, so quintessentially the embodiment of the Doris Day myth that every eye in the room is on her.

She’s oblivious, naturally. She always is. I wonder if it’s because she’s so used to being ogled in her other life that she filters out attention and ignores it without even noticing? If I were to point out her unfurled-tongued gaggle of besuited admirers, would she regard me with surprise?

Probably. Although her surprise might have more to do with the fact I’d actually be addressing her.

By unspoken consent, we haven’t said a word to each other since Nipplegate. I was… foolhardy…in pointing out the obvious. I don’t know what madness or mischief seized me. She’s been so riddled with embarrassment since that she won’t even look at me now. I’ve allowed her some space. But the longer the silence drags on, the more awkward it is.

This is ridiculous. She’s my _assistant_ , for God’s sake. Why am I accommodating her at all?

I look at her, impatience coating my features. “Keira?”

She looks up, eyes wide, and immediately her cheeks redden. She looks down again.

Oh for god’s sake. It’s tempting to tell her we _all_ have nipple malfunctions from time to time. She’s hardly special. There was that awkard twelve minutes with Harrison Ford at the media ball, which would best be forgotten.

“Yes Miss Grant?”

Time to address the elephant in the room. I clear my throat.

“Cat Grant!”

We both spin around, startled, as the keynote speaker rounds on me. Roger Burns. Media magnate from Britain. His smile is wide and it suits his broad, handsome face. We are nodding acquaintances, nothing more. But his eyes are bright and interested this time. More than is warranted for a man I’ve met twice for thirty seconds at a time.

Kara’s expression immediately settles into something due south of disgruntled.

Burns launches into a patter about his upcoming speech, turning on the charm like a fire hose. Apt given his name.

In my younger days, he’d be exactly the sort of smooth-talking catnip I might appreciate. Instead I find myself growing increasingly fascinated by my assistant’s reaction to him. I don’t believe I’ve seen that look on her face before. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she had encountered rancid donkey entrails.

So begins an almost scientific experiment in cause and effect.

I brush his jacket sleeve; Kara’s jaw grinds hard enough to hear.

I smile at his almost passable wit and Kara drops her pen. She scrabbles about for it on the floor with all the grace of a listless manatee.

I cock an eyebrow as she climbs back to her feet. Time for the big guns.

I playfully pat his chest, and laugh at possibly the worst joke in human history.

Kara scowls like a B-grade Eastern European villain and snaps her thick, 300-page notepad in half.

That gets Burns’s attention. Eyes wide, he swings to look at her, blurting out in astonishment, “That’s not actually physically possible.”

_No, no it isn’t._

I smirk and glance at Kara, waiting for some convoluted explanation as to how she casually defied the laws of physics. This should be good.

Instead she blinks at me once, her mouth falling open, flings down the notepad, and flees.

I frown. Well. This is not an acceptable outcome.

In Kara’s absence, Burns moves on from this lapse in scientific reality, offers a warm smile, and suggests drinks. He has the look of a man convinced he’s about to do a slam dunk. _Foolish boy._ He doesn't realise he's not even in the game, let alone which game is being played.

I tell him I have to network and shoo him away with an impatient flap of my hand. The look of confusion on his face would be comical at any other time, but right now he's not important.

I have more vital issues to contend with. Such as where, oh where, has my flighty assistant gotten to?

* * *

 

Cat Grant is pure evil. _Pure. Evil_. Okay not like those hardened, vicious criminals from Fort Rozz. But she’s close.

I sit at the resort’s bar surrounded by conference attendees. Most are ignoring me but I’ve fended off three men trying to buy me drinks by giving them my frostiest of glares. Two laughed at my attempt. One asked if I needed medical attention.

Cat can glare beautifully, of course. She can make non-verbal evisceration an art form. I envy her that. I mean not that I’d want to glare at people often but it’d be nice, you know, to know how. _In case._

Right now I hate her skills. I detest how easily she can cut and slice a person into strips. Then a breath later, turn on the charm for the next person. How _knowing_ she is when she does that.

I huff out a breath. It’s cruel what she did. To flirt in front of me with that man? _Roger Bastard Burns_. All smooth with perfect teeth and lovely hair. Of course she’d want him. He even looks a bit like her ex. But does she have to be so _blatant_?

Does everything have to be a game?

I can’t help how obvious I’ve been lately. I wish I could stop blushing. I wish I could stop...the other signs. But that also means she knows. She knows and seems to have fun toying with me.

Like I say. _Evil_. I grimace at my drink. I’m hitting the hard stuff today. Lemon squash. I toss it back and call for another. Well, the real hard stuff has no effect anyway so I might as well go easy on my wallet.

The bar tender obliges.

“Hey there, you keep slamming them back that hard, you’ll crack the counter.”

I turn to find a late-thirties woman eying me with a beautiful smile. I place her after a few moments. A conference organizer. She greeted us a few hours ago, thrusting goody bags at us containing corporate pens, mugs and USB sticks. Cat refused to even touch hers, as though the gloss of the cheap bag would cause a rampaging skin infection. She's nothing if not dramatic.

I sigh.

“Nice bag,” the woman says, looking amused. Like there's some joke in there somewhere. Her head tilts to the pair of goody bags on the seat beside me.

Oh yeah. I’ve been hauling these around for so long I automatically grabbed them during my grand flounce out. I give the stranger a considering look. She’s over 6ft-tall, solid, strong, like some retired decathlete, with a cropped, curly tangle of black hair, and exceedingly attractive biceps. Exactly the kind of woman that ladies of a certain persuasion would probably notice.

Probably the sort of woman I should notice, if I ever want to get over an unattainable, entirely evil boss. I give her a glum look.

“I’m Marjorie Benson,” the woman says, holding out her hand.

She has kind eyes, I think, as I take it. I attempt a smile. “Kara Danvers.”

“You’re way too pretty to be drowning your sorrows. What has you so worked up?”

“Nothing.” And because lying is such an anathema to me, I can’t help edit myself for accuracy. “Well, nothing I can fix.”

“Ah.” She tilts her head. “I saw you with Cat Grant earlier. Is she your boss?”

_Great. I can’t even escape the evil one at some anonymous bar._

“Yeah.” I gulp at my lemon squash.

“I see. Cat Grant problems. I’ve been there.” She gives me a knowing smile and orders a gin and tonic.

“You worked for Cat?”

“A lifetime ago. Okay, twelve years.” The drink is placed in front of her.

“Who were you?”

“A junior VP. She was my mentor.” She shoots me a measured look. “She mentored a lot of us back then. She doesn’t do it anymore. At least I thought she didn’t.”

There’s a question there, in the way she regards me. For some reason, though, I don’t want her knowing how Miss Grant is helping me. It’s too personal, even though it’s not. Even though there’s nothing more there than my wistful thinking and useless fantasies. Admitting Miss Grant mentors me, feels too much.

“It’s okay,” she says and her voice is kind and soft. “I see it in your eyes.”

I don’t like that look at all. A thousand denials spring to my lips. Besides, what can she possibly really know? I’m a stranger. She can’t possibly…

“I may have also expressed my interest in Cat back in the day. I wanted more and I told her so.” She sounds wistful. She tilts her drink back and I watch her swallow as though she hasn’t just said the most astonishing thing.

How do you say _that_ out loud? Like you’ve said, I once bought two-for-one mittens at a sale and they weren't half bad.

My heart starts pounding chaotically with a need to know every detail of how this story unfolded, every twitch of Cat Grant's face on being propositioned by this confident, unexpected woman who gives out dodgy gift bags.

I aim for nonchalant. “How’d that work out for you?” Okay, so that came out more desperate than I’d hoped.

“I’m guessing about as well as for you?” Marjory suggests. “I mean sorry to assume but…” She really does look a bit sorry. “It’s just I recognize the look in your eye from my own mirror, years ago.”

Am I really so transparent? Grouchiness rises up. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mmm.” She takes another sip of her drink. “Okay then.” She makes to stand.

Oh no. No, no, no. I need to know everything. She can’t toss me a morsel like that and leave. I latch onto her arm, stronger than I intend, because she winces, and looks at me in surprise. I relax my grip. _So much for nonchalant_. “What’d she say to you? When you told her?”

That knowing smile is back. “That it was inappropriate. We parted on good terms, though, but it still stung. I mean I was young and well…she’s a very impressive woman.”

"A little too impressive,” I murmur.

Marjorie chuckles. “Yeah. My poor ovaries didn’t take it well either. Oh well. I lived.” She raises her glass. “To impossible crushes.”

I eye her glass. Clinking it would be an admission. I hate admitting it to myself, it’s so pathetic. Yet seemingly without conscious thought, I lift my glass and clink hers. “You know I’m denying all this if anyone asks.”

“Fair enough.” Marjorie leans closer. “You know, there’s a saying, if you can’t be with the one you want, be with the one you’re with.” Her eyebrows take on a rakish tilt and her expression says _take this as a joke or not._ "And conferences are famous for having a little fun, far from the real world." _  
_

The air sucks out of my lungs. I’m not into one-night stands. Or afternoon stands as the case may be. On the other hand, it’s so flattering, being wanted by someone I find attractive. Arousing, even, to have someone beautiful think I'm worth pursuing.

It makes a change.

My body twitches a little in interest. But the truth is my heart just doesn’t work that way. “Marjorie… I…” I lean over and pat her hand.

“Well there you are!” Cat Grant is suddenly between us. Small but powerful, like a biting, icy wind. Her elbows are on her hips, angled towards Marjorie like jagged rocks. “For a moment I wondered if you’d forgotten you were my assistant.”

“Miss Grant?” My damned heart is pounding again. How does she do this so easily? Tilt my equilibrium?

Sharp, narrowed eyes shift to Marjorie. “Margaret,” she says, saccharine dripping from her tone. “How unexpected.”

“Marjorie,” she corrects with an eye roll. “And I know you know that.”

“It’s bad enough you’re handing out bags of commercial junk, but I thought you were better than picking up stray assistants between speeches.”

 _Stray?_ I fold my arms indignantly.

Marjorie’s smile is tight. “Kara’s her own woman.” She stands and places her glass firmly on the counter. “I just wanted to say hello.” Her smile compresses. “For some reason she was looking all neglected.”

“Hey!” I say. It comes out like a squeak. “I’m right here.”

“Not for long,” Cat eyes me and taps her foot impatiently. “I do not pay you to socialize with failed VPs. Come. We have work to do. And work doesn’t involve having your head turned by a rival network chief.” She shoots Marjorie a warning look.

Marjorie's smile edges into a smirk. “Well…I wasn’t exactly talking business with her.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you were doing. And Keira’s not interested.”

Laughing, Marjorie shakes her head. “A word of advice to my _old_ mentor? A little respect goes a long way.” She turns to me. “Later I hope, _Kara_.” The innuendo just drips off her tongue, and it’s clearly intended for her former boss’s edification, given it's the most overt she's been this whole time.

“Oh…” I say, praying I won’t blush again. “Um.”

I blush.

 _Goddamnit_.

She leaves me with a wink, and her former boss with a wave.

I feel Miss Grant’s gaze burning into me. She seems angry for some reason. Why? I wasn’t gone more than fifteen minutes. Nothing was scheduled beyond meet and mingle.

“Come Keira,” she snaps, and it seems like icicles have just coated the bar.

Okay, what the hell just happened?

 

* * *

What the hell just happened? It's been years, _years_ since I've felt this possessive. Never over an underling. Certainly not over someone so...so Kara.

This cannot happen. I've said it from the start. If she could just stop blushing and being so sweet and naive that any predatory bar fly could swoop in and claim her...

She is _not_ for claiming. I grind my teeth in annoyance - with her and myself.

I shoot Kara a dark look and she meets my gaze, baffled.

"Is something wrong, Miss Grant?"

Wrong? What could possibly be wrong? I stopped you from becoming a notch on the belt of a woman who could charm the pants off half of National City and you didn't even realize the danger.

"Would you have slept with her?" I ask before I can stop myself. _Well that's an inappropriate question._

She adjusts her glasses with a frown. "How is that your business?" she counters.

Well. It's not. Except it is, isn't it? Except I can't say that because it's a dangerous path. A path I refuse to tread.

I purse my lips. "She's notorious," I say. "I had concern for your wellbeing." Ooh, that's good. I congratulate myself. In truth Marjorie is about as notorious and dangerous as whipped cream.

"It's just..." she twists her face... "You sounded jealous."

I draw to a dead stop. I round on her with a sharp look.

Her eyes are bugged out like that was the exact last thing she ever intended to say.

"Don't be ridiculous," I tell her firmly. That would probably carry more weight if I hadn't darted my eyes to stare at her lips when I said it.

She hasn't noticed. She's too busy looking furious over my answer.

I force my gaze to her forehead. It settles on the scar over her left eye. The "tell" that proves she's Supergirl. Suddenly I'm suppressing the urge to laugh. I'm having a spat with _Supergirl_. Who looks ready to punch my lights out.

"It's not ridiculous," she says with heat. "Miss Grant, why do you care who I choose to sleep with?"

Oh the way she says that. Like her line of lovers is so extensive. Why do I find that hard to believe? Nonethless the curl of biting jealousy clutches at me.

"You will not sleep with her and that's final." I use my best boss tone. I desperately hope it's enough.

Her eyebrow lifts. "You _are_ jealous." There's amazement in her tone and right now I hate her for it. For exposing me. For pointing out how weak I am...

"If you like her so much," Kara continues, "why did you say no to her when she asked for more?"

Oh sweet mercy. She thinks I'm jealous because I want _Marjorie_? That galloping Amazonian I slapped down a decade ago? Such an impertinent creature. Propositioned me while nine sheets to the wind. She could have showed a little respect. Decorum. Cat Grant is _not_ to be drunk dialed.

I chuckle at her, low and long. "Oh, Keira, I can promise you are so very wrong." There's utter conviction in my statement because it is accurate.

Kara looks down, unsettled.

She really is far too good. For me. For Marjorie. For all of us. But especially me. What am I? A too-old mother of one who's her boss. It's insane.

Without thinking, I cup her cheek. "I don't care about Marjorie. Believe me." I drop my hand and watch as she draws in a deep, shaking breath.

"You said her name right." She says it with almost wonder.

I did? Oh. I suppose I did.

"I wish you'd say mine right." Kara looks at me dead-on then, with a long, aching, hopeful look, and right at that moment, I wonder if I could deny her anything. If she asked me to kiss her right now, I'd kiss her senseless. I feel a swirl of arousal at the thought and hate my traitorous body for it. Oh, I would do _anything_ she asks me right now. She has no clue how much power she possesses. I'm hardly about to share that.

Instead I straighten and roll my eyes. "I have no idea what you mean. Now if you're done socializing, the schedule says we should be in conference room two in ten minutes. Come along. Kara."

I try desperately not to glance back at finally acknowledging her name but I can't help myself.

The electric brightness on her face at those four letters could power National City for a year.

I look away, unable to stand it.

 


	4. All at sea

I don’t pay any attention to the speaker in conference room two. The future of print media seems such an arbitrary thing to fixate on, despite Miss Grant’s interest in it. No matter how people get their media, they will still want it. Why concentrate so fiercely about the form? Why panic that print’s dying? So what? Be the best in the online world, then.

Miss Grant, though, is engrossed. Or maybe she’s just a better actress than I give her credit for. I’m a mess of emotions. She cupped my cheek. She called me Kara.

And yet…she forbade me from sleeping with Marjorie, like she has a say in it. Such arrogance! How can she do that and think it’s okay? Like this is something a boss can demand?

I see Marjorie in the corner of the room, propping open a door, preparing for the speech to end. They’re doing Q&A now so it won’t be much longer. Our eyes meet. She smirks at me.

I quickly skid my gaze back to Miss Grant, who is scribbling notes all over her program. She’ll expect me to type them up for her later, and my head aches at the thought of turning her random scratch marks into coherent thoughts.

I peek again at the doors. Marjorie is standing beside a poster advertising a beautiful Fijian beach. She leans into it, taps it and points at me. Oh yes, that sounds every kind of divine.

Her smile becomes inviting…and seductive. _Oh_.

I swallow. My heart speeds up a little. Dare I? Just because Miss Grant orders a thing, doesn’t make it so. Right?

Suddenly there’s nothing I want more than to defy my imperious boss.

The speaker wraps up. I lean into Miss Grant, ignoring the subtle notes of her floral scent that has driven me wild for months.

“Miss Grant,” I whisper. “Is there anything else you need before dinner?”

I try to look indifferent but she clearly knows me well. Her neck arcs a little. She pulls her glasses off. “Anxious to get to the beach, are we?”

“Maybe?” I give her a teasing smile. “We are in Fiji after all. But of course I’d only go if you don’t need me any more for now.”

“No,” Miss Grant says firmly. She holds my eye, studies me for far too long, like she’s deciding something. Something important. “I don’t need you.”

I stare at her, and pray to Rao my shock at the cold dismissal isn’t showing. That was so… I mean there’s little doubting the point of those cutting words. I’m just a minion. She’s reminding me. Putting me back in my place, after my…lapses toward her.

She tosses her itinerary in my lap. “See that this is written up by tonight, though,” Miss Grant tells me. She slides her glasses back on and adds. “ _Keira_.”

A part of me curls up into a tiny ball and wants to cry. A larger part of me is irritated with myself. I’ve always known, deep down, that this was one-sided. Now I know for sure. She’s telling me, clearly, what I am to her. All I am. So I don’t make an even bigger fool of myself.

Disappointment and embarrassment flood me, along with anger at her dismissiveness. “Yes, Miss Grant,” I grind out. I rise and am gone from her side in moments. I don’t want to stay anyway. Even the sight of her now feels toxic to my poor, vulnerable heart.

 I lean against Marjorie as attendees file past her at the door.

“Ten minutes?” I whisper.

Her smile is wide. “Meet me by the tiki bar. I’ll show you the best spot we can get some sun.”

Why shouldn’t I have someone who wants me, anyway? Or at least bask in their appreciation a little? My ego could use the warmth. And Miss Grant’s chill is colder than Greenland. (And I know—I’ve been.)

* * *

 

I could bite my tongue out. Was it really necessary to say something so cold? Or be so brutal in my dismissal? I knew the moment I saw her face fall and eyes tighten that I crossed a line. My selfish interest in protecting myself seems to have hurt Kara quite badly.

I’m an old fool. I need to rectify this. I’m not entirely sure what to do. I can’t encourage her crush, but I don’t want her to feel…unappreciated and unremarkable. She could never be either of these things.

I pace our suite. Kara was gone before I got back here. Obviously she has a speed advantage on me, but I can’t blame her for not wanting to be around someone who just told her she isn’t needed.

_Who does that?_

Pouring myself a drink, I go to the window, and gaze at the soft swells of the ocean tumbling below. It’s beautiful here. Relaxing. Peaceful in a way you just can’t get in a city. Stress slides right off my shoulder blades. Or it should. I still feel tense.

My gaze falls to the assorted tourists, some in the water, some tanning on the sand. And two women in white timber deck chairs facing the sea. They’re holding fruity drinks and laughing, heads tilted toward each other.

I’d know my assistant’s silhouette any day. And the woman with her? Well. It seems Kara’s beach companion is six foot tall, female, and a little… I frown… handsy.

I grit my teeth.

_Fine._

She’s her own woman. Despite what I told her, she can spend time with whomever she wishes. It’s not like I wasn’t aware she’d be seeking her own distractions on her downtime.

And did I, or did I not tell myself before we’d left, that I’d just stay in my room and let her have her fun?

They’re laughing now. Heads bowed toward each other.

That’s it. Desperate times, call for desperate measures. I virtually sprint for the phone.

* * *

 

I look up from my chat with Marjorie when I hear the sand shifting behind me, and the quiet murmur of voices. One in particular.

“Well here’s a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, Roger?” Miss Grant’s voice sounds surprised, teasing and altogether too happy to actually belong to the boss I know well. It’s her fakest let’s-all-be-friends tone which she usually only foists on advertisers at parties.

She lightly slaps the tanned, barrel chest of the media magnate she’d been with earlier and he beams like car headlights.

_What is she doing with Burns?_

A stupid question. It’s pretty obvious what she’s doing with him. Flirting up a storm.

Marjorie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hello again, Cat. I didn’t think I’d see you quite so soon.” She looks amused about something. “Planning a dip?”

“Just taking in the view,” Miss Grant decrees. She glances at the vacant deck chairs beside me, before shaking out her towel.

Then, like some _Vogue_ model, she slowly removes her beach shirt with an elegant flourish, and situates herself on the lounger. Well, _drapes_ might be a better word.

Cat Grant is wearing the smallest white bikini I’ve ever seen. Her skin is soft, supple and her petite frame settles on the towel. She is stunning. Roger Burns is staring, too. I relate to the charming idiot’s thunderstruck look.

She stretches out her legs, wiggling her toes for her audience, then crosses her feet at the ankles. She turns ever so slightly toward her date, which gives me a side view of her ass. Her smooth and perfect ass, so pert it would put an apricot to shame.

My throat dries like a dusty road and I hastily slurp my drink.

“Thirsty?” Miss Grant asks. Her head lolls back to face me. Even that she seems to make languid and graceful.

I drain the rest of the drink. “It’s hot,” is all I can think to say.

“Oh, it is.” Her eyes trace my body, draped in a black tankini, and I feel like she has her own X-ray vision. It’s like fingers have trailed all across my skin. I break out into goose bumps which would be embarrassing if not for my confusion. I dart a look at her face but she seems unaware of what she’s doing, or doing to me.

I exhale and turn to Marjorie to escape that evocative gaze. Only to find an intensely curious one on my right.

“It comes with Fiji,” Marjorie is saying.

I blink, having no idea what she’s talking about.

“Beautiful skies, hot weather.” She pauses, raking her eyes over me. “Glorious views.”

I blush furiously now, having completely forgotten her interest in me, so it comes as a shock. And, of course, that’s what I do these days. Turn myself into a stop light. My God, it’s getting tedious. I swing my gaze back to Miss Grant whose eyes are narrowed and fixed on Marjorie. It’s a lethal look, one I’ve not seen often.

There’s so much heat between them I’m starting to wonder if Miss Grant lied. Maybe she has some interest in Marjorie after all.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Miss Grant drawls to Marjorie. “I’d have thought with your organization sponsoring the conference you’d be too busy prepping the upcoming events.”

“Never too busy to make new friends,” she says, waving my way. “Besides, there’s nothing more planned until the evening. And anything else that comes up? Well, that’s what we have assistants for, at the ready. Am I right?” Her smile is slow and curling.

Miss Grant’s gaze is now half lidded. She turns to her left and pats her date on the chest. “Roger, could you be a dear and get me a margarita? I’m suddenly parched. All the small talk at these things dries me out. You know how it is.”

The media mogul rises to his feet, looking completely bewildered. Clearly he’s not a man accustomed to fetching his own drinks. His head swings around wildly.

“Over there,” I tell him, pointing to a windowless thatched hut. “I can recommend the pineapple daiquiris.”

“Of course you can,” Miss Grant murmurs.

“Miss Grant?”

“Oh I don’t know, it’s exactly the drink I’d have imagined for you.” She glances at Marjorie. “And you? Hard liquor I presume? You always liked to sail close to the wind, didn’t you?”

“You think I’m a lush?” Marjorie asks, lips quirking. “Or is that just how you wish to paint me in this awkward little triangle.”

I blink. Um. What? What is she implying? That Miss Grant likes her and…me? I give Miss Grant a worried look. The indignation is all over her face. Figures that she'd hate that implication.

“Triang…” Miss Grant starts. The protest dies on her lips and her head turns, eyes squinting.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I could have sworn I heard…”

I look to where she is now pointing. Shock rockets through me at the sight of a tourist plane, one of those four-seaters that buzz around the islands, giving tourists good photo angles. Instead of climbing steadily, it’s dipping and the engine noise is erratic. My shock is not that it’s now in trouble…but my own obliviousness.

By Rao, how could Miss Grant have noticed that before me? I’m distracted. My selfishness is appalling. I give myself a mental shake and firmly tell myself that no one’s bikini is that good. Even if that's a lie.

I sit up, biting my lip.

“Kara?” Marjorie asks. “Going somewhere?”

“I should…” I glance around in a panic. “Alert the authorities.”

Miss Grant’s eyes shoot between the plane and me and back again.

“I just did,” Marjorie lifts a small phone and waves it. “I texted my assistant and told her to get on it. She’s calling everyone.”

“Oh.” I don’t sit back down.

“There’s nothing else you can do,” Marjorie stares at me. “The authorities will be on it in no time.”

“I-I think I need to get another pineapple drink,” I say, standing. My eye is trained on the plane. I’ve just heard its left engine die. The right is sputtering. It’s not long for this world either.

“I’ll come with you,” Marjorie says, making to rise. “I could use a top-up too. And you seem ready to jump out of your skin.”

“I…I…”

Miss Grant is giving me an odd look over the cocktail she’s sipping. For some reason, under her withering gaze, I can’t come up with an excuse.

“No,” I finally say. “Please no.”

Marjorie frowns. “It’s no trouble. I could use the walk.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” Miss Grant suddenly says.

“What?” I ask, in confusion.

“I don’t want a margarita. I need a mai tai. Tell Roger while you’re at the bar. ” Miss Grant’s hand shoots out to Marjorie and clamps onto her. “Sit,” she orders. “I have some conference questions. Let my assistant do her job, and you can do yours. Mmm?”

I don’t wait for a reply. I don’t wait for anything. That plane has only a minute left. I’m gone before Marjorie even turns back to me. I find myself muttering a soft thanks to Cat without thinking. She probably won’t hear it.

I'm almost out of range when I hear Miss Grant’s almost-amused chuckle in reply.

I am too focused to think about what it means.

* * *

 

She saves the plane so quickly it’s almost anti-climactic. One moment, I’m making up nonsense talking points for my former junior VP and fending off my now-returned, touchy-feely beach date, and the next, a streak of blue and red splits the sky.

That shuts them both up. Thank God. It was hard to work out who was more irksome.

I watch, awed as ever, as Kara saves the day.

“What on earth is Supergirl doing out here?” Roger asks. “It’s miles from anywhere.”

An excellent question. I have no immediate answer. Nothing plausible, at least.

Marjorie stares at the sky with a frown. I’ve seen that look before. She’s a smart girl. Actually, a little too smart. There was a reason I chose to mentor her in the first place. If she fixates on this question long enough, she might suddenly start to form a conclusion.

“Marjorie,” I say. “Tell me something, why did you so suddenly leave CatCo?”

It’s a cruel question. One to which I already know the answer. Drunk dialling and proposing illicit relations with your boss will tend to see one skulk off at the first available job offer.

Her brows meet. She knows I know. But it instantly derails the conversation.

“I’m just going to see if Kara needs a hand,” she murmurs, shooting me a dark look.

Well, I deserved that. I smirk.

“Hey,” Kara says, appearing out of nowhere. "Did I hear my name?" She seems a little breathless. Her hair’s wet. Probably the engine blowing water off the sea at her. No drinks. “I’m sorry I missed Roger at the bar. He must have gone around the other side.”

Roger blinks at her in confusion.

Marjorie’s staring at her hair. “Wet…how?”

With a pained look, Kara just stands there. I swear she used to be much better at bumbling out semi-plausible excuses. Has she taken leave of her senses? Must I do everything?

“Kara,” I announce, standing. I pull my outer shirt on with sharp jerks. “We’ve wasted enough time doing the Fiji experience but we’re here for work. I’d like you to transcribe those notes now. Come along.”

“Yes, Miss Grant.” Her grateful look as she springs to attention shouldn’t affect me like it does. Has she realised I’ve called her the right name? Is that it? Or is it the reprieve from being under Marjorie’s bare light bulb?

“Call me later?” Marjorie’s voice is suggestive. “Room 105.” Her eyes caress Kara as my assistant slings her towel over her shoulder. The teasing tone sets my teeth on edge.

I ignore her and trudge toward the hotel. _The fact that elongated beanstalk has the temerity to flirt in front of m…_

“Um, Cat? Haven’t you forgotten something?” Marjorie’s amused snort follows her question.

I stop and pivot. Roger’s disappointed gaze hits me in the eye, from thirty feet away.

Oh right. That. Er, him.

“I thought we were…” he waves his fingers between himself and me. “You know.” He gives me a hopeful look. “You didn’t even try the Passionfruit Sunrise I got for you.”

Kara glances between us, incredulity and distaste warring on her face, and then scuttles on, leaving me to my fate and excuses.

I feel a headache coming on. And I hate passionfruit. It’s just so…peppy and teenage. The texture is slippery and inelegant. It gets gritty bits of black between your teeth which take an eternity to extract. I will not tolerate that indignity. Anyone with an ounce of sense would know this.

I stare at him for a moment. Roger Burns is the feeble personification of all that I’m not looking for in a companion. It’s not his fault. But it doesn’t change anything.

I’m tempted to sum up everything for him in eight words.

_Kara would know to never give me passionfruit._


	5. Ruminations on the rocks

I write up her stupid notes in record time, with a burst of super speed fuelling me. I don’t even care if she wonders how I did it so fast. I just want to be gone by the time she finishes farewelling Roger bastard Burns. I am not tempted to look out the window to see if there’s an impassioned goodbye kiss. I grit my teeth at the thought.

In another burst of furious speed, I change into some yoga pants and a T-shirt. I leave a stickynote at the top of the now written up page of notes for Miss Grant to find and zoom off to Room 105.

Marjorie answers with a blink of surprise and wordless wave to come in.

I’ve barely said hello and somehow it all tumbles out. I’m ranting about Burns. I’m pacing. I’m demanding to know how dare Miss Grant decide who I can and cannot date. And, as Marjorie thrusts a glass of something alcoholic in my hand, I swallow it in three gulps, and rail at the fact Miss Grant is _utterly impossible_.

When I finally draw breath Marjorie has a knowing, wistful look on her face. “Sit,” she says. “You’re wearing me out just watching you.”

I sit on the sofa and suddenly look around. Her hotel room is nice, maybe even as nice as Miss Grant’s, but as a conference organizer, maybe it was a perk. Scowling at myself, I wonder if everything must come back to _her_.

Marjorie’s chuckle is low. “My God, you’re so adorable when you’re angry. No wonder Cat’s so gone on you.”

That stops everything. Including my breathing. A thousand denials spring to my lips. “No…”

She runs a pointed finger up and down the condensation on her glass and sighs. “And before you say she’s not, she is.”

I gape at her, wondering what madness has seized her. “You’re crazy.”

Smiling, she has a sip of her drink, something burnt yellow that rattles when she arches her neck. It’s such a lovely neck. _Miss Grant has a lovely neck._

I sigh at myself.

“I suspect, Kara Danvers, your boss is as into you as you are her. It’s just she’s a lot better at hiding it.”

I shake my head, and will the surge of pathetic hope to squish down and not swallow me whole because I absolutely cannot take that right now.

“You’re wrong,” I whisper. I must be giving her a pitiable look because her knowing expression softens.

“Kara, if she didn’t like you, she’d hardly forbid you seeing me. Whatever she told you, she knows I’m a pussycat. And if she was really into that Burns man, don’t you think she’d have chosen somewhere more private to get to know him? She would not seek out her assistant to parade him in front of … and then forget he was there when she decided it was time to leave. Her interest in Roger Burns is about on a par with Passionfruit Sunrises would be my guess.”

“I can’t believe he bought her that,” I say. My nose wrinkles. “Passionfruit gets into teeth and Miss Grant hates that.”

“See?” Marjorie’s smile is so soft. “Adorable. Look, it’s simple. She was trying to make someone jealous.”

I blink. “Y-you?” Because the alternative is just too terrifying to cope with. I cannot have hope unleashed, because cutting it off at the knees later will be devastating. I’m not that strong. I place my empty glass on the coffee table in front of us. My knees come up under my chin and I curl my arms around them.

A rich laugh fills the room. Marjorie shakes her head. “Oh, I have no doubt _Miss Grant_ ’s interest in me is not romantic. More…territorial. See, I’m in her way.”

Setting my jaw grimly, I glare at her. “That’s absurd. She doesn’t like me like that. She says she doesn’t need me. And she calls me Kiera. Again.”

“Actually, she called you Kara just now.”

I cycle back over my last conversation with Miss Grant. And then I hear the words. I glance up at Marjorie. “But…” I try, “she thinks I’m just a minion. She doesn’t even need me.”

“Oh she needs you all right, even if she loves denying herself. I’d have done anything to have her look at me the way she sized you up in your cute tankini. But, apparently her taste runs more to Gabrielles than Xenas.”

“What?”

“An old show. Never mind.” Marjorie rises, fetches my glass and holds it up. “You want another? Or is there somewhere else you’d rather be?” Her tone is suggestive.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. It’s hard to sort out my feelings. If any of this is true, what does it mean? It’s not just me I have to think about… there’s Supergirl.

Suddenly my brain stutters to a halt. I _thanked_ Miss Grant for the distraction she gave me so I could get away. And instead of asking me why, she laughed.

Like she knew exactly what was going on.

“I have to go.”

“Shocker.” Marjorie’s tone was rueful.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I feel terrible for her. “I didn’t mean to… um…” Lead her on?

“I know.” She waves my explanation away. She smiles. “Go get her, tiger.”

“It’s not like that,” I tell her, even if that’s sort of exactly what it’s like.

“Sure it isn’t. Give Cat my love. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.” The ruefulness is gone and her amusement is as warm as a hug.

“You’re so great.” I lean over and give her cheek a kiss. I’m grateful. And there’s such a lot I need to figure out now. My impossible boss and I have more between us than just _us_. There’s whether she knows my secret. What does that mean, if she does? And…I’m also still mad. There’s a ball of humiliation still sitting in my stomach at the way she dismissed me. She can’t say things like _I don’t need you_ and hurt me on purpose and not apologize for that. My fingers turn into fists. That still stings. How could she think that's okay? To look me in the eye and just devastate me? I force myself to relax. There really is a lot to deal with. And I can't do any of it hiding out here.

“Go on,” Marjorie rolls her eyes. “Get out of here before I inform Cat that we’re duelling at dawn for you.”

“Ha.” I straighten, trying to picture the scene. Miss Grant would look dashing in a cape and the high boots. I picture her twirling her antique pistol, her wide black hat at a rakish angle. “She’d cheat.”

“Yes, she would.” Marjorie gives a knowing nod. “Because that’s how much she wants you.”

And suddenly it feels like the truest thing I’ve ever heard. I stare at Marjorie in wonder at this realization. I suddenly understand in my soul, with a complete certainty bubbling up from my subconscious, that no matter what, Miss Grant _would_ fight for me. And she’d do whatever it takes to win. 

What a startling piece of information.

I blink.

_Oh. Oh wow._

 

 


	6. Striptease of the Soul

Kara's gone by the time I make my way back to our suite. I tell myself it's probably for the best, although I can’t help but speculate as to whose suite she’s probably in. The thought coats me with an irrational jealousy. It’s so cold and dark and illogical. It doesn’t fill me with pride. If I can’t have her, no one can? Is that it?

I’m a terrible woman. She deserves someone who isn’t.

My eye falls to a Post-It note on some paperwork and I realize she’s already written out the notes I asked for. I sigh. She’s clearly distracted if she’s being this sloppy. No human could have done this in so short a period of time. She _has_ to know this. Doesn’t she care if she leaves me such unsubtle clues about her secret?

Is she finally ready to talk about the red and blue elephant in the room?

That would be novel.

I slip off my bikini, which seems to have had the desired effect, more or less (more chagrin fills me at my foolishness) and I change outfits to white linen pants and a black, sleeveless blouse. I fetch a drink – a pineapple something-or-other I find in the mini fridge. No doubt Kara’s refreshment of choice. It’s sweet and perky, just like her. Well, like her when she’s not furious at me.

With good reason, I remind myself. I’ve been behaving poorly. It’s time I review. Reflect. Fix this.

I should stop meddling. I should let her have who she wants if I’m clearly unwilling to make a move myself. And I definitely don’t want to do that. It’s all so inappropriate. I’m old enough to know better than this.

There’s a snick and a clunk. I turn, surprised.

Kara is back in our suite, pacing in front of me, looking rattled. How long has she been gone? Twenty minutes at the most?

So her visit to Marjorie clearly went south. It’s rude to preen. Still. It’s damned tempting.

“Miss Grant…” she starts, and then looks at me, utterly bewildered.

“Yes?” I tilt an eyebrow.

“You shouldn’t have said you didn’t need me,” she suddenly declares, her hands in tight fists. Her painful look from before is back, raw and accusing.

_Oh. We’re going there._

“No.” I brush lint off my pants as I work out what to say. I meet her eye. “I shouldn’t have. It’s not true.”

She blinks at me in confusion. “It’s not?” Then her eyes darken and she firms her jaw. “No. It’s not.”

I smile then because even this rattled, Kara Danvers is just so teeth-achingly adorable. Her blue eyes drill into mine then, and suddenly my assistant’s inherent cuteness could not be farther from my mind. Her expression contains a hard, daring look I’ve seen before on this woman, but never ever while being Kara.

How…unexpected.

“Well, hello,” I purr. “Fancy meeting you here.” I tilt my glass at her, a hint of a smile curling my lips. It’s a little hard to resist being cocky, but it’s my first port of call when I'm thrown.

Time slows to a crawl as she processes that reply.

“You know.” It comes out as a faint exhalation, barely audible. Not even a question. The softness of the comment is her way, I suppose, of giving me the option to ignore it if we don’t want to go there.

Oh hell no. I’ve waited long enough. We’re going all in.

“Of course I know.” I give a direct stare of my own. “No one has ever accused me of having a low IQ.”

She slowly walks over to stand beside me at the window. Her head tilts my way. “How long?”

“Almost as long as you’ve been my assistant.”

She nods then, her jaw tightening. “I see.”

There's so much tension in those two words. They're part accusation, part defeat. Like she's failed at something, something important, and I can't help the wash of sadness I feel that she sees it that way.

“In case it’s escaped your notice, I can be discreet,” I tell her. “I will continue to keep your little secret. Supergirl.”

Saying her name out loud makes my heart suddenly thud. It’s conceivable, I realize, that there was a tiny part of me that still wasn’t 100 per cent sure. But there’s no taking it back now. There’s a line being drawn here, that once crossed can never be hidden behind again.

She licks her lips and finally looks at me. “Thank you.” There are no denials or fumbled stutterings of “Oh no, Miss Grant, you’re wrong.” Her gaze is even but lacks warmth.

That hurts even more than the lack of trust.

I compress my lips at her response. We don’t speak for a few moments. I can see her reflection in the glass, beside mine, a frown furrowing her brow.

“I couldn’t tell you,” she suddenly says. “It would have endangered you. And Carter. I-I…couldn’t bear that. I will protect you both with everything I am.”

Her shoulders straighten, her jaw shifts up, and it’s astonishing, this smallest, subtlest shift in demeanor, but she now looks nothing like Kara at all.

I can see her point of view. How many times has Lois Lane been kidnapped now? All because she knows Superman? I have Carter to consider. It shouldn’t feel like she didn’t trust me, even though for months that’s what I thought.

I can’t speak, so I nod.

“I should quit,” she suddenly says. Her eyes are earnest and sad. “This can’t go on.”

Panic surges through me at a loss I don’t think I can handle. “No!” My hand flashes out and latches on her forearm. “There will be no quitting! So I know your secret? So what, I always have. Nothing has to change.”

She looks at me then, and it’s like she can see right through me. Hell, she actually can, so that’s extra unnerving. I drop my hand.

Her smile is bittersweet. “That’s not the only secret you know. Is it?” A faint blush blooms across her cheeks, and she looks down at her brown, unfashionable shoes.

And just like that, it’s Kara who’s back in the room. My Kara. Embarrassed I know she is attracted to me. How brave. Could I have ever done what she just has?

I suppose that’s what makes her the superhero. I’m the desk warrior who fights her fights in print.

 _She can’t, can’t, can’t leave. That is unacceptable. I won’t allow it._ The thoughts ricochet through my brain, a mantra I can’t stop.

I could just play ignorant. She wouldn’t leave then. If she thought I didn’t know how she felt, then… I  arrange my face to suitably clueless. “Kara? I don’t…”

“Miss Grant.” She says it sadly, with a small tsk. Like she can’t believe I’d try and fool her at all. It’s beneath us, and she’s right.

I sigh. “I just don’t want you to leave.” It’s all I can think to say, it’s all that vibrates along my bones. Can’t she see? What’s wrong with her? We work so well together. “Why should any of this, anything change just because…” I blow out an annoyed breath and wave between us.

“You know why.”

_I do._

The moment she told me she was quitting I guessed enough. She hasn’t come right out and said it though, so maybe it’s not that serio…

“I’m in love with you.” Her cheeks are scarlet and she bites her lower lip.

Oh. Damn. Now there’s no walking any of this back.

At the same time my heart starts thudding its approval of her words, so sweet and simple. Arousal and joy flood my every nerve ending, till I’m virtually weak. It’s so hard to look at her then because there’s so much innocence in that face. Such intensity, such emotion, and it’s the purest thing. I’ve been married, more than once, and my husbands never, ever looked at me like this. Like I’m the most amazing person someone’s ever met, and they can’t believe they know me.

She tilts her head again and it’s enough to give me whiplash. She’s both Kara and Supergirl. And they both love me.

How can anyone be this brave?

It was so much easier before this conversation.

“It’s okay, Miss Grant, that you don’t feel the same way.” She’s not looking at me now, her eye fixed on the blue, foaming wash on the horizon. “I think, though, maybe a part of you feels I’m yours.”

My head snaps up at that, outrage at the suggestion, warring with my heart’s small titter of agreement.

She gives a strained laugh. “That’s what makes you a little territorial I guess. For a moment I forgot myself, and thought, hoped it might have been more than that. I admit it felt nice, in a way, that you cared enough to notice when other people want me. But, I get it. You like to have control of things. Empires. Buildings. People who you work well with.” Her gaze darts to mine. “Although I don’t like that you think you can dictate who I’m with. That’s not right. Even if you do mean the world to me.”

Her tone is even and measured, like she has some speech she has to get out before she…

My eyes widen. “You’re not leaving,” I tell her, and I hate how desperate I sound. “You’re not. I don’t accept this. I will reject your resignation letter.”

Her smile is sad. “For once, Cat Grant, even you are not the most powerful person in this room. And you can’t just will something to be so, just because you don’t like change. Do you have any idea how impossible this would be for me? Working beside you? Being ordered to fetch your coffees and lunches, like you’re just my boss, even though you know what I feel for you. Making reservations for romantic restaurants for the latest Roger Burns who captures your roaming eye?”

The anguish in her voice is heartbreaking.

“Is that what this is about?” Relief fills me. _I can fix this_. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” I promise her. “Never again. And Burns was nothing more than a…” I wave my hand.

“Fun distraction?” She regards me. “Miss Grant, he wasn’t fun for me.”

“And what of Marjorie? Was she fun for you?” I can’t help that jealous little snake that rears its head.

“Careful,” she whispers. “You almost sound jealous. I almost fooled myself earlier that might be true. But I think we both know the truth. You like the way I look at you, the way I scamper to do your bidding. The way I put you first and cater to your every whim. But I see now that’s where it ends. And I don’t like that feeling. It wouldn’t be good for me to stay.”

It’s _not_ where it ends. I want to explain. My God, if she could see what she does to me. My mouth opens to explain. I catch the glimpse of myself in the reflection in the window. I’m old next to her. Fifty-two. In the shimmer beside me, I see someone young and vibrant, with so much ahead of her. She isn’t a mother. She wouldn’t understand what that sort of responsibility means. And we’re literally from different worlds. I can’t just follow the whims of my body or my heart. But I’m not ready to let her go.

“It wouldn’t have to change,” I try again. “I wouldn’t have to date anyone. I can just…” I shrug and inject causticness into my voice. “Dating’s overrated anyway.”

Her smile is sweet and soft. “Thanks for trying. But I won’t make you unhappy just because it would hurt me to see you with someone else. I’ll head home in the morning. Then I’ll finish up at CatCo as soon as I find my replacement.”

Kara leans over to kiss my cheek. Her finger trails my skin and then she steps away. It’s like being under a sun lamp, feeling that much affection directed at me.

I feel the softness of her lips lingering long after she’s turned to go back to her room.

I despise the slow-motion sensation of loss between us now, draining out of us like a balloon losing air. I hate that I know it wouldn’t be right to pursue this. I hate all of this.

What will life be like without her, my panicked brain demands. Will I even still get my visits from Supergirl? A thought strikes me.

“Kara…” I hesitate, wondering if this is too much to ask. “Just once, will you show me? Before you leave me. Show me you becoming her?”

Head cocked, she studies me for a long time. Her face is a mask. “You really want to see that?”

“I…” Suddenly I feel foolish. It’s an odd request, I suppose. “Just once?”

She nods. I expect a flash and for her to be Supergirl in front of me in the snap of fingers.

Instead she shocks me when she holds my gaze and achingly slowly begins to unbutton her shirt.  Her fingers tremble as she inches her way down the shirt, more and more blue revealed.

Oh my God. What was I thinking? It’s like some agonizing, impossible, painful striptease, a baring not of Kara’s body but of her soul.

Why did I ask this of her? I feel like a sadist.

She finally eases her shirt off her shoulders, pulling it down, dropping it to the floor, her eyes still locked on mine. And, as her hand shifts to her belt, as she unzips her pants, with the same patience and slowness, I realize to my shame that she’s crying.

The salty tracks slide down her cheeks as she bends forward, dropping her pants to her ankles.

When she straightens, I expect to see Supergirl in front of me. Instead the woman with her hands on her hips, shoulders back, jaw clenched, is someone with a tiny tremble in her lip, pain in her eyes, and wet cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t think.”

“I know.” She turns and in a flash she’s dressed herself. She shakes her head. “Goodbye, Miss Grant.” With the tiniest of rueful smiles, she amends. “Cat.”

There’s a blur and she’s gone. The click on the door to her room signals it’s shut.

_What have I done?_

 

 


	7. Laid Bare

I crack an eyelid when my bed shifts and dips. Before I can recoil, I immediately recognize the scent of her, and the swift, even thudding of her heart. It’s as unique as the swirls on her fingertips.

_What is she doing?_

For a moment, there’s no more movement, and I open my eyes.

“I wondered if you were awake.” She purses her lips. “Then I wondered if you even sleep.”

Miss Grant…Cat…looks terrible. Her eyes are swollen, her lips are pulled down, and she has a disagreeable expression, like the time I brought her coffee with the wrong type of soy milk.

She also looks wonderful, in a short-sleeve T-shirt, soft from age, and tiny silken cream shorts that show off her legs.

“Why are you here?” I ask, sitting up against the head rest. I glance to my left. The red digital letters _5:07_ show up on the clock radio on the beside table.

For some reason, she takes my question as an invitation and slides under the sheet, sitting beside me.

Her nearness is painful. I wonder if I can inch away without being obvious. But she’d notice. Cat Grant notices everything.

“Well, you seem to be of the opinion you’re leaving in the morning.” She pouts. Actually… _pouts_. “And knowing you, you’ll be _up, up and away_ before I can stop you. So we’re having this out now.”

“This?” I study her. “Miss Grant, there is no _this_. There’s me leaving and you finding a new assistant.”

Even as I say it, the thought makes everything inside clench. But I refuse to be some pathetic assistant with a one-sided crush on her boss who likes the attention. Well, it’s more than a crush of course. My cheeks warm at the memory of how my burst of honesty last night removed any question about what I feel from either of our minds.

“Obviously this can’t go on.” Cat looks peeved and I wait for clarification as to what she thinks _this_ is, because nothing has changed from ten hours ago.

She bends her knees under the sheet and wraps her arms around them.

“I had an awful evening.” She looks at me as though it’s all my fault.

I hadn’t gone with her to the conference dinner, it’s true. She didn’t ask and I didn’t volunteer.

“I kept turning, looking for you at my side, to share something, ask something, offer my witty observations at something, and you _weren’t there_.” She sets her jaw. “Marjorie was there, though. That Amazonian giraffe kept looking at the seat you should have been in.” She is glowering now and at any other time I’d find it both endearing and intimidating.  “Roger Burns was there, too.”

That gets my attention. I shoot her a sharp glance.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I sent the man packing. He was useless anyway. He got me that _passionfruit_ drink, for goodness sake. I mean _really_. And his eyes are too close together.”

“Passionfruit,” I murmur. “That always ends badly.” His eyes aren’t really too close together, though. He’s a perfectly handsome example of his species.

“Exactly.” Cat gives me a pointed look. “You know these things.”

“Mmm,” is my noncommittal answer because this conversation is going nowhere remotely sane.

“I called Carter when dinner was over.”

“Oh?” I’m interested now. I really like the kid. He’s sweet and kind and reminds me of Miss Grant when her guard’s down. Which is usually whenever she’s interacting with her son.

“Yes.” She sounds extra disagreeable now.  “He seems to think you’re nice.” She bites off the word, as though it’s the worst insult in the world.

“Okay?” _What’s wrong with being nice?_

“He never said he liked any of the other people I dated, but you? _You_ , he likes. More than that. In fact he made it abundantly clear that if you weren’t around anymore he’d be most unhappy.”

“Um…” I peer at her. People she’s _dated_? _What has that got to do with me?_ And why is Cat running anything past Carter about any of this? I’m just the idiot assistant his mother doesn’t want. Or rather, doesn’t want enough.

“If we’re going to do this, I need to know you won’t hurt him.” She looks at me archly.

_Doing what? Surely she can’t possibly mean…_

“Because that’s important. He’s the most important thing in my life. He is…everything.”

She peers at me again and waits.

My mouth falls open.  “Miss Grant,” I say, “I love Carter. I wouldn’t ever hurt him. But what has that got to do with me leaving?”

“I already told you. Leaving is unacceptable.” Her eyes narrow.

“I really don’t think that’s up to y…”

“Of course it is,” she says with conviction. But suddenly, she’s looking at her fingers, turning them, twisting them. On anyone else it would look like nervousness. But she’s not just anyone.

“What of our age gap?” she pins me in place with a sharp look. “Have you thought about that? Before you made your grand declarations of love?”

I’m staring at her openly now. She’s talking like she’s really considering it. Us. _Oh wow._ My brain nearly short circuits. In reflex, I answer the question like any of the random asides she so often tosses my way.

“Well, what does age mean to you?” I reply and look at her, showing it’s not a rhetorical question.

“It’s how many years a person’s been on this earth. It matters,” Miss Grant says and her chin lifts, daring me to make a good argument.

“I’m not from this Earth, though,” I say. “The number of years I’ve been here is irrelevant. In fact I spent a large chunk of my life floating about in stasis in space, if you want to get technical. So your definition doesn't apply.”

“Well, age also measures experience, wisdom, maturity in dealing with life’s realities…” She trails off and slides me another challenging, expectant look.

“ _Cat_.” I use her first name deliberately; to remind her we should be equals if we're doing this.  “Of the two of us, who do you think has the most experience of reality? I fight life-and-death battles every day. I have gained wisdom, insight, and maturity through that. My age in Earth years counts for nothing compared to what I possess here.” I tap my temple. “And I think you know that.”

She bites her lip and, damn, it’s so adorable.

“That is… a valid point. Others would see it differently though.”

“Cat Grant, Queen of All Media, now cares what people think?” My eyebrow lifts in mockery. “People she’s never met?”

She’s silent for a moment then huffs out a breath. “No. I mainly care about Carter’s views. And apparently my darling boy doesn’t care whether I date you or not, just that I’m _nice_ to you.” She curls her lips.  “Because he _likes_ you.”

“You're talking about dating me?” I pause, wanting to be sure I haven't misread all of this. “Do you even like me like that? You’ve given no sign…”

With a growl, she twists across me, and her lips find mine. Her legs slide over and straddle my hips and her hands fall to my shoulders, pinning me to the bedhead. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she hisses, lowering her lips to my neck. “Of course, I like you like that. Do you think I just crawl into any assistant’s bed and beg them to never leave me? My God. Can you really not see what’s been so obvious between us for months?”

“B-but…”

“Kara,” she says, silencing me with the pained way she says my name. “I thought I was protecting us both yesterday, that it would be messy and inappropriate. But that doesn’t mean I felt nothing. This was _never_ one-sided.”

Her lips are on mine again, and they’re so hot and hungry I can barely think.

When she pulls away, her eyes are blown dark with arousal. “But I can’t tolerate the thought of a repeat of…” She stops and her voice hitches. “I don’t want you to ever do _that_ again. Ever.” She pokes me in the shoulder, then softly rubs the spot with her fingers, as though easing away a pain I can’t actually feel. “You can’t do that.”

“Leave you?” I’m struggling to grasp the conversation.

“Well, don’t do that either.” She stops and stares into my eyes, as though willing me to understand something important. “Kara, I don’t want to ever see you so …” She stops and shakes her head. “All because of _me_. I don’t want my heart to break for you because I’ve hurt you so much you’re in tears. I _never_ want to make you feel exposed and unwanted. You _are_ wanted.” She says it fiercely, throws it at me like a grenade. “And for the record, you _are_ mine. You were very right about that.”

“Yours?” I squeak.

She gives a rueful chuckle. “Marjorie’s little comment on my way out was, if I hurt you, she knows where I live. My God, you barely know the woman, and you already have her planning vengeance on your behalf? How do you do this to people? But do you know what my first thought was? Her threats were nothing compared to what your tears did to me. You sweet face… crumpled. So sad, so beautiful. My God, it’s like kicking a kitten breaking your heart.” She lifts her fingers to my cheeks and trails them down where I imagine the tracks of my tears had been. “How unthinkable you should believe you’re nothing to me,” she mutters. “Just... please don’t cry again. I'm only so strong.”

Shock coils through me. She’d given no sign I’d even affected her. She is clearly a master of that iron mask she wears. Amazement and hope surge.

She suddenly rolls off me and gets out of bed.

“Where are you going?” I give her a worried look.

Her glance in return is scorching. “Nowhere. Silly girl, I’ve already told you. You’re not leaving me. And I’m not leaving you. All right?”

And while her words are a demand – the old Cat Grant I know so well – there’s a tremble in her fingers and her eyes are so emotional I stare in wonder.

“Okay," I whisper. "No leaving."

And it’s like I’ve told her the secret to the universe because she smiles at me so brightly, I could float away on the bliss of it. “But why are you out of bed?”

“I thought I should give you what you gave me. It’s only fair.”

“What did I give you?” I’m lost again. They should issue road maps with Cat Grant.

“You stripped yourself bare before me, yesterday, in so many ways. I know how hard it was for you. My God, your face was…” Her jaw clenches. “Well, the point is, despite my fearless reputation, _this_ is hard for me. I’m not…” Her cheeks are suddenly pink and she instead slowly slides off her T-shirt. “Not as young as I was. I’m not perfect, despite outward appearances.” She attempts her trademark smirk but her telling blush gives her away.

I gaze at the small breasts that bob into view, with dark red, crinkled nipples standing at attention. Her hands drop to the waistband and I see the hesitation.

I wish I could take away her insecurities. I gasp because speech seems like one of those skills I no longer own.

She smiles then, and slides her shorts down her legs, along with a pair of panties.

Cat Grant is nude. She is perfect. And... _oh Rao_.

She can't help herself, and puts her hands on her hips in a parody of my Supergirl pose and cocks an eyebrow. Her eyes dart to mine and her lips sip in a shaky breath.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her reverently.

She slides back into bed and when she smiles it’s so damned sweet.

Tension is suddenly building between us as she slips her naked body over mine. She looks down at me, fingers trailing down my arm, then lifts her hand to curl some loose hair behind my ears.

“Kara,” she says in her drollest voice. “Explain something to me.”

I blink.

“What’s the point of super-speed, if you’re still dressed?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. The Touch of Her

She’s a wily one, that Kara Danvers. Now I know what lies beneath those prim glasses, those eyes – wide and bright – that smile, so young, so charming. Now that I see her, and she sees me, she knows I’ll never let her go. She knows, I can tell, in the way her sensuous gaze weighs up mine.

Her confident hands, soft and warm, trail down my skin. They rest on my breasts and the sensation, as they do a soft swirl around my nipples, is scorching. I tremble, unable to stop myself. And she smiles. A knowing smile that I’m hers.

_Incorrigible woman._

She’s right, of course. I’m hers. She’s mine. And that’s all there is to it.

I give her my best hooded gaze, the one that suggests I’m interested but not a writhing mess inside, although, frankly how my knees haven’t given out three minutes ago is a mystery.

My attraction for her burns. All I want now is her.

“Kara,” I growl, deciding I’m too damned aroused to play tricks with her name, “get naked and into bed with me this instant or…” A suitable threat fails me.

Her hand freezes somewhere just below my belly button. It’s an untenable delay. A variety of apt curses rise to my tongue.

“Or what, Miss Grant?” she teases.

Ooh. She will be a handful, I can tell. I’ll never get my old assistant back. That Kara is forever lost. And that’s good. Yes, yes. Very good.

I smile, a predatory smile that promises all manner of naughtiness and rejoice in the finger tremble and hard swallow I receive in return.

In a flash, literally, she is bared, so fast I haven’t even had a chance to take in the details.

She’s laying me down, her body naked and heated, pressing into mine, and suddenly that’s all I’ve ever wanted. I don’t care about anything but the feel of her lean, powerful thigh, falling between mine, rocking, pressing into me, as her hands fly across my skin at speed, sending tingles all over.

I moan, once or twice – _really,_ _who can keep count –_ and dear lord, that’s restrained given all the overwhelming, teasing sensations I’m experiencing.

She looks pleased at the little sounds I make and then suddenly she’s kissing me. Who knew the girl had it in her? She kisses me like I’m the most magnificent creature she’s ever touched, like I’m a goddess, who must be worshipped and lavished with devotion. Her tongue is slippery and teasing and it’s a matter of moments before I’m as wet as I’ve ever been and dangerously close to begging.

Cat Grant does not beg. There, that should be stated on the record. Carved in stone. An affidavit filed in some official court of sexual proclivities.

But as Kara is my witness, I _beg_ her to move her mouth to where I’m desperate for it, to where I’m writhing and twisting, desperate for more.

She takes in my pleas and I tense, fearing some smart-ass commentary on my embarrassing level of neediness. Instead I get only delight – sheer vibrating, supreme delight that she’s sparked all this in me.

“Oh, Cat,” is all she says. Somehow she makes it sound thankful as she kisses her way down my body, down my soul, down my equally vexatious and apparently appealing form, fusing her mouth in ways that aren’t humanly possible.

Lucky me that she isn’t human.

Her tongue inside me, around me, over me, whirs at high speed, and has me arching and quivering and inventing names of deities to pledge fealty to. She worships and worships and worships, pulling every drop of moisture from me, those keen blue eyes fixed on mine, burning and excited, thrilled at what she’s doing to me. My undoing, to be precise.

It’s incredible, intense, enervating.

I can’t stop the waves of orgasm, they pull at me, dragging pleasure from my bones, my skin, my blood, which pounds in my ears, and all I can think of is: _How did I ever think I could say no to this? To her. How can I ever be without her again?_

I can’t. I’m hers. That’s all.

Cat Grant may not beg but apparently I do a pretty accurate imitation of it when Kara from Krypton eats me out.

Oh Christ. She’s going in for round two.

I’m not sure I can. I really don’t think I…

“Try,” she tells me, and smiles in encouragement, before sliding her slippery fingers inside me.

 _Okay_ , my mind squeaks. (Cat Grant also doesn’t squeak, I’ll have you know.)

I’m convulsing again. It’s been minutes or hours or months or days. I can’t tell. I’m like a blissed out rag doll coming down from my high. Or highs.

Kara’s scribbling moisture all over my trembling thighs with her fingers, playing a little game, like she’s writing my name in her language. For all I know she is.

I try to speak. To sound cynically amusing. To nail that superior tone that always used to make her bottom lip suck in and her eyes widen.

Oh hell. Apparently Cat Grant _does_ squeak.

She’s laughing at me, and for once in my highly strung life I don’t mind. She’s adorable when she laughs. I mean it. I’d like to see it again.

I smile, my cheeks infused with a pinkness, and threaten her playfully with all manner of things for her crime of gentle mockery. I even suggest she feel free to add her own punishment. What she thinks I should do to her.

“Fuck me,” she whispers, eyes suddenly serious. Her cheeks blaze crimson at her boldness. I’m about as shocked as she is, and it’s so delicious, that unexpected word coming from those lips.

“Why, Kara,” I say, reaching for her. “You needed only ever ask.”

Okay, quite possibly the biggest lie I’ve ever uttered. Well, apart from that time I claimed Lois was an acceptable journalist or my mother was an excellent conversationalist. I blame my Ambien.

Oh hell. Did I have to think of my mother? Not when Kara is rubbing herself across my stomach, legs splayed on either side, her wetness impossible to ignore. And all I want is…all I need is to _show_ her. To explain, without words, what the touch of her does to me. How she makes me desire on a level I have never felt. She makes me jealous and insane and do ridiculously unprofessional things and I am… in love.

With Kara.

My assistant.

Who is also a secret superhero.

Who has just asked me to fuck her.

I flip her onto her back. Which is to say she allows me to toss her over with ease, because I swear we both half floated for a second before I was back upon her.

I slide down the bed and position myself between her legs. I gaze upon her, my desire returned, fresh and full, and then I feast.

She watches me, eyes half lidded, one hand flung behind her head, the other kneading her nipple, pinching it.

The taste of her is exactly as I’d expect; not foreign in the least. She’s more human than she knows. She writhes and gasps and moans and cries out exactly as any other woman I’ve ever made love to as well. But she is a woman I love. So somehow it’s like creating something perfect, doing this to her, for her, with her. Making her call out to this Rao of hers. Making tears leak from her eyes.

When she comes, and it doesn’t take long, so fast in fact that she looks almost embarrassed, I’m thrilled. And smug. Of course, I’m smug. And she smiles at that, laughs a little, like I’m adorable, when I’m not really. I’m far too old and too caustic and have too much baggage to be looked at like that. But I’m relieved she doesn’t see me the way I so often do. That she is instead delighted by me and my lips and my touch and my awful smugness after making her come.

She looks at me like I’m the special one.

And that’s all I’ll ever need.

We curl up together in a display of cozy affection that with anyone else I’d call cloying. Yet I feel as content as I’ve ever been. I don’t want her to go. She says she’s never leaving. And so that’s that.

“I love you, Cat,” she whispers just before she closes her eyes.

I still don’t know if she sleeps. We haven’t gotten that far yet. It’ll be one of the things I learn about her in our years ahead. Just as she’ll learn all my foibles and failings and why I really drink my coffee the way I do.

“Well, yes,” I reply. “Me too, obviously.”

It’s a shame her eyes are closed so she can’t see the fabulous eye roll I put with it, like pairing Choos with a playful Alexander Wang skirt. It really was perfect.

I needn’t have worried. Her lips curl into an amused twitch of a smile. She knows. And if she doesn’t quite understand the depth of my feelings, well, I have decades ahead to make her grasp how much I need the touch of her.

How has she done this? What power is this?

Truly, I have no idea.

But it seems I was right all along. She’s a wily one, that Kara Danvers.


End file.
